


1941

by chosenbythemoon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The First Avenger, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9068326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chosenbythemoon/pseuds/chosenbythemoon
Summary: “Name’s James Buchanan Barnes, my friends call me Bucky” the boy smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. 
He found himself smiling back, “Steven Grant Rogers, but you can call me Steve.”
__
In the years before the war, in which Steve Rogers falls in love with his best friend.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter has a year and a season, snapshots of two Brooklyn boys growing up in a world far too cruel.

The world seemed bleak.

Steve dragged his feet along the sidewalk, making his way home from school. He didn’t really have a home to go back to, but he was going somewhere. The books in his hands seemed heavy in comparison to his frail arms, though he never had a problem with their weight previously. The wind seemed harsher today, blowing right through the fabric of his clothes straight to his bones and he had never felt so empty.

She never had shown how tired she was, she always looked at him with a soft gaze and a softer smile.

Steve’s Pa had gone off to fight in the war when he was small. The first world war that shook the nation violently was a towering man demanding attention with his booming voice, chilling to the bone. The nation answered the call, but it was never once mentioned what the price would be for answering that call. Steve remembered waiting up at night and watching out the window for any sign of a truck, a man, anything. Waiting at the mailbox for just a single letter only to receive a sad head shake from the post man. Waiting for a sign of his Pa. He was only a little kid, maybe five at the oldest, but he remembered.

_“Ma, when’s Pa coming home?” He inquired._

_“I don’t know, Stevie,” she replied, a solemn look in her eyes._

The soldiers, came to the door on a Sunday afternoon. His Ma had sent him to his room to play with his toys. Steve didn’t listen to her of course, curiosity getting the best of him. His small feet padding across the apartment and carefully avoiding the squeaky floorboards. He paused, just out of sight, in a doorway. He couldn’t hear what they had said, except for the words “I’m sorry,” but they had a grave look on their face. He remembered the way his Ma cried, gasping for air and her figure trembling. He’d never seen his Ma cry before, but it sent ice running down his spine and made his stomach feel queasy.

He didn’t ask about his Pa after that.

Sarah Rogers was a hardworking woman, she always put herself in harm's way for him. She worked two jobs to make ends meet and she still managed to put some food on the table for him in the afternoons. Some days it was harder than others, especially with the world crumbling around her. The Great Depression hit and it hit hard, leaving people to flounder in the waters until they either sank or swam and Sarah Rogers was a swimmer.

She did laundry in the afternoons, in the gaps between her jobs, scrubbing until her hands were red and raw with her apron wrapped around her thin frame, then she’d go and hang the clothes in the living room by the window where the sun would finish the job for her. Her golden hair would catch in the sunlight as she hunched over the sink and every time it did, Steve would notice a few more gray hairs than before, weaving in with the blonde like a hidden secret. He’d sit at the kitchen table in the sunlight, listening to the radio and the sound of his Ma scrubbing.

Starting at the age of six, he would draw for her, his oddly thin fingers scrawling crayons on the surface of whatever paper he could scrounge. He’d draw her anything he could think of; he’d draw her, he’d draw the grass and butterflies, or his best impression of the daisies from the florist. When he’d finish he’d immediately scramble over to the sink and present it to her with a beaming smile. She’d always stop what she was doing and dry her hands on her apron. She’d carefully take the drawing from him and he’d watch her bright blue eyes take it in as if she were memorizing it so she’d never forget it’s contents. She’d smile and say, “this is beautiful, Stevie!”

He’d draw for her every day, even as the years went by. It always brought a smile to her face and Steve loved to make his Ma smile.

One day he couldn’t draw for her.

Steve was picked on in school due to his size. His ma told him he was just “a late bloomer, is all.” He was only nine-years-old now, but he was easily a head shorter and at least thirty pounds lighter than every boy in his class. They’d tease him, the boys, they’d push him around and they’d call him names. Steve would fight back, of course, because he didn’t see it to be fair. Why should he get picked on for things out of his control?

Steve was on his way home from school on a Wednesday afternoon. He was already running late on his way home, due to the fact he had forgotten his jacket and his tiny box of crayons, the same set from when he was younger. The box was safely tucked in his breast pocket of his shirt, which was peaking out of his hastily half zipped jacket. He was speed walking as fast as his thin legs and asthma would take him, careful not to get his heart rate up too high. Fear was running rampant in his brain, afraid he’d worry his Ma or that he would miss his chance to see her and draw for her. Steve decided to take a short-cut, cutting through the alleyway that would deposit him on the street by the playground, just two blocks from home.

He whipped to the right, scuttling through the alleyway. He passed a few trash cans and a few men scrapping. He ducked and weaved, depositing himself on the block by the playground. He was almost home. Steve clutched his books close to his small chest and started down the street. His head was tucked down as if he were a speeding bullet, when in reality, he was only mildly speed walking and already feeling fatigued. He began passing the playground, ignoring the laughter or the delightful squeals of happy children. He was almost clear of the fence when a voice called out from the noise.

“Hey, Rogers!”

He faltered in step, halting. His head whipped in the direction of the sound to see a large group of boys from his class. There were at least five of them and each outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. They were near the entrance to the playground, eyes trained on him like a pack of hungry dogs staring at a scrap of meat. His wide blue eyes couldn’t help but just stare, dumbfounded. The biggest one took a step forward, his voice booming again,

“Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you pipsqueak.”

Steve could feel his shoulders involuntarily rolling inward as they approached. They swayed in their step, their shoulders dictating their whole body movement that seemed to make them look bigger.

The biggest boy, a grin on his face, “Where you off to in such a hurry, Rogers?”

The boys circled around him. Steve held his belongings tighter to his chest, his brow furrowing but he couldn’t maintain eye contact with the boy. His eyes fixed on a piece of smushed gum on the concrete as he replied quietly, “none of your business.”

“What did you say?” Another boy, tall and burly, snarled at him.

“Yeah what’d ya say, Rogers? It’s hard to hear you down there,” the largest boy sneered.

The other boys laughed now, a chorus of hyenas around him. Steve’s shoulders squared, he felt trapped. And maybe that was the idea. One of the boys, a tall and lanky thing, reached out and smacked his books out of his hand. Steve jolted at the sudden action but then quickly bent down to gather them again while the boys laughed again. In the midst of the madness, his crayons fell out of his pocket with a heavy plop onto the ground, bouncing to land in front of the biggest boy’s feet.

Wide blue eyes watched in fear as chubby fingers reached down, scooping up the box of crayons and observing them with his dark beady eyes. Steve’s heart clenched as he watched the box teeter in the other boy’s grip. Books forgotten, Steve lurched to his feet and jumped for the crayons. The large boy was quick in stopping him; with a hand to his face and push, Steve was sent back to the pavement. He winced at the sound of tearing and the sting of scraping, his hands and knees catching his fall. He looked down to see a tear in his trousers. His Ma was going to be upset over the fact he was late and now one of the few trousers he owns were ripped.

“Little baby Roger’s has a box of crayons!” The boy declared, waving them above his head.

Steve got back up again, pushing off of his skinned hands and reaching for the crayons with a desperate plea of, “give them back!”

The biggest boy tossed them to tall and burly, who laughed and caught them with ease. Steve turned to him, his thin fingers grasping at the air. Tall and burly tossed them to tall and lanky, as the other boys giggled and spread out to accommodate this new game. His hands grappled for the crayons as the boys kited him around in a circle, a game of keep away he didn’t want to play. He felt like a child, a younger child than he was now. Steve felt like he was four-years-old, reaching for things that he couldn’t reach, the book on a higher shelf, the door knob, his Pa. He could never reach these things, he’d only try and try to fail.

He tripped over his feet, stumbling in the circle as he felt the weight of defeat on his chest like a brick. Tears were brimming his eyelids and he was sniffling more than he’d like, he bit down on his bottom lip to prevent them from falling. The biggest boy had the crayons now and he sneered down at Steve.

“Aw, what’s the matter pipsqueak? Can’t reach?” The boy’s nose wrinkled when he smiled, dangling the crayons just out of Steve’s reach. The boys were all still laughing around him, as if they heard the funniest joke on the block. Steve mustered all of his strength and leaped in the air. The bigger boy, rather than shoving Steve down, simply raised the crayons higher. Steve’s thin body was so close to him he brushed against his chest, his fingers swiping at the air to meet nothing. Instead, his hand made contact with the boy’s face. He felt the scrape of his tiny nails against skin and winced.

In a fit, the boy shrieked as his other arm reflexively shoved against Steve’s chest as he came back down to the ground. Steve fell back again, landing on his books. The crowd of boys fell silent, all looking towards their leader who was cradling his face with one hand and lazily holding up a box of crayons with the other. Steve’s wide blue eyes watched as the large boy uncovered two long scratches that covered from merely above his eyebrow to the tops of his chubby cheeks. The crowd remained silent, but Steve could feel the fear, the anger, swelling around him like an angry cloud.

“Why you little-” the largest boy growled, his face contorting in anger.

He raises his arm, slamming the crayon box on the ground. Steve couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped his lips. The boy’s large sneaker raised, coming down like a boulder on the worn down box of crayons. The box crumpled under the weight, before the top split open and rainbow dust wheezed out as a last breath before the crayons were pulverized completely under the grinding of massive toes into the concrete. The boy’s began to circle in, caging him in entirely. Steve tried to get away but two large arms looped under his, cupping his chest under his armpits and hoisting him to his feet.

His legs were rag dolling, but his body kept flailing as he tried to get out of their grip. He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by the biggest boy’s fist to his face. The pain took him by surprise, a sharp sting that erupted from his jaw all the way down his collarbones. He gasped for air, his body flailing like a fish out of water as he struggled against the boy’s grip. The boy landed another hit nearly identical to the first hit. Steve’s leg swung back with impact and collided with one of his captor’s crotches. He dropped Steve’s arm, yelling in pain. In the confusion, Steve’s trembling body quickly wrenched his thin arm free from the other boy who was holding him, tripping and stumbling.

Panicking, Steve scrambled, gathering his books all in one hand and ducking under one of the massive boy’s arms. He took off down the street, his gangly legs carrying him faster than he ever ran before. He heard the stampede of footsteps chasing him and angry shouts, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep this up for long. Overexerting himself, he pushed through the pain until he saw the familiar pale bricked building he called home. He saw his Ma in the front window and began to shout,

“Ma! Ma!” he cried, desperate for her attention. Her gaze snapped to the window and she dropped the clothes in her hands. She disappeared from view but it was only to wrench the door open and run outside to his aide.

“Stevie?” she called out in confusion, her voice laced with fear. He couldn’t stop the tears that burned from the corners of his eyes, his heart swelling and lungs wheezing. She knelt down as he ran into her arms, a coughing mess and he gasped for air.

“What happened?” she began to ask, when she heard the shouts. Her blue eyes darted behind him, as she saw the group of boys heading down the street. She rose to her feet, shoulders drawn back as she defensively shoved him behind her. They slowed to a stop, staring at her like a pack of feral dogs.

“Back off, will ya! Go on, scram!” She barked, her motherly voice full of aggression. They were glaring at Steve, who peeked out behind her apron, clutching to the familiar fabric so hard his knuckles were white. The boys turned, losing interest in the thrill of the hunt for the day, and Steve felt his stomach drop knowing that they would be back to finish what they started. He was still wheezing and gasping for air, his coughing fit starting up again. His Ma turned back to him, kneeling down and letting his asthma take it’s course. There wasn’t anything she could do, they couldn’t afford anything to make it stop. It took a few minutes but he was finally able to breathe again.

His Ma cleaned him up, taking him inside and sitting him on the toilet as she fixed up a warm soapy water bowl. She plucked a clean rag from her pile, dunking it in the bowl as she kneeled down before Steve. She began to wipe away the blood from his split lip with the washrag. Steve’s shoulders were slouched and his gaze was fixed on the floor. His Ma didn’t say anything about his torn trousers, even though Steve’s fingers fiddled with the fabric. She didn’t say anything for a little while. The only sound in the room was the sound of the water trickling off the pinkening water as she wrung the rag.

_“I’m sorry, Ma-” Steve began, his voice small and cutting off._

_“You listen close, Steven,” she spoke, a seriousness in her voice like he had never heard before. He sat up straighter, on reflex, at the sound of his full first name._

_“You **always** stand up.” _

_He nodded furiously, his eyes wide like dinner plates._

She was working so hard and so often that she developed a cough.

It was small at first, a few coughs every now and then. As the weeks went by she got worse, a handkerchief always in arm’s reach, neatly tucked in her pocket of her apron, in her hand as she hacked and wheezed. Every day it got stronger, she’d cough longer and she’d gasp for air. Steve would look up at her with eyebrows screwed towards the center of his forehead and the biggest, most fearful eyes, but she would simply smile and tell him she was alright. He believed her until he began to see soft splatters of red on her white handkerchiefs.

They didn’t let him see her when she was hospitalized. He begged and pleaded to see her, he slept in the waiting room one night, but they didn’t let him stay.

He was only 12 when she died.

The world seemed bleak.

It had only been two weeks since she’d past and Steve had never felt so alone. His home was taken from him and the house he lived in shortly followed. He had gotten sent to the orphanage within the next three days, his belongings fitting all in one bag. He dragged himself down the sidewalk, past the playground where the children’s laughter sounded like white noise. The books felt like burdens, heavy and sinking him through the ground. He felt, lost, alone, like the last man on earth, and yet he wasn’t even a man. He was just a boy from Brooklyn.

“Hey, Rogers!” A voice barked through his solitude.

Steve’s head whipped around as he looked at the chubby face of the big boy and his gang. The same bullies who had picked on him three years ago, and many years prior. He felt his stomach knot up as he swallowed thickly. He felt his shoulders begin to curl, but he froze the movement. He stared solemnly at them as they approached him and circled him once more.

“Your mama’s not here to protect you now, Rogers,” The biggest boy sneered, jabbing a large finger into his chest.

Steve glared up at the boy, but the boy must had seen the faltering in his gaze, the slight quiver of his lip. He felt it happen, he quickly stiffened his upper lip but it was too late. He showed sign of weakness, that was Steve’s first mistake. The boy laughed, a hearty laugh like a fat man at a feast. Steve felt his insides crumbling, his defenses dulling. He didn’t have much strength left to fight anymore. He felt the thought pass through his mind before he had time to think twice about it.

Steve wanted to quit.

The boy noticed the dullness to his once sharp blue eyes and he acted. The large boy shoved Steve hard, without a purpose other than to break what was already broken. He fell backwards into another boy who shoved him forwards. He tripped and hit the ground, his books spilling onto the ground again. He stayed on his hands and knees for a moment, catching his breath.

“This how your mama raised ya, Rogers?” the largest boy jabbed, venom in his voice that ran ice cold through his veins, “mama raise a quitter? A little baby? Who you gonna run home to now, Rogers?”

Steve’s body moved too fast, feeling vertigo as his vision went blurry and he was seeing red. He flung himself up to his feet and swung his tiny bony fist at the boy. His knuckles collided with the pudge on the boy’s cheek.

The boy let out a squeak, stumbling back and holding his cheek. Steve’s face held a snarl, his teeth bared but only slightly, as if it were a warning. HIs knuckles were throbbing and swelling, but he had never felt a fire like this raging in his chest before. It was worse than his asthma, like he couldn’t breathe but at the same time he couldn’t stop, ragged breaths coming out of his mouth. The other boys’ faces darkened, and one grabbed him. He swung at him, landing a hit on the boy’s nose. The boy cried out but countered, swinging a fist back and straight into his face. The boys all began attacking him, as if they had been given the command “sic ‘em.” Steve began to flail, swinging his fists and body. He landed a few punches, but he was an inexperienced fighter despite all of the fire in his body. He was too small to do as much damage as he’d like.

He found himself on the ground again, feet landing a few blows on his ribs. He was wheezing now, gasping like a fish out of water against the pavement and trying to block the hits in any way he could.

They backed off, for only a second or two, the eye of the storm. He was groaning in pain involuntarily before he silenced it, swallowing down the noise. He bit back tears, he locked his jaw and clenched his teeth. He was rocking softly, trying to gather strength, trying to fight the pain. He was torn from his thoughts by a hand grabbing hold of his blond locks, yanking him up. He inhaled through his teeth in a sharp hiss, eyes screwing shut as pain shot down his scalp.

“Had enough, pipsqueak?” the biggest bully’s voice sneered, his hot breath fanning over Steve’s face. The boy let go of his hair and Steve’s head fell onto the crook of his elbow. The boys laughed darkly and sounded like they might be backing off.

His mother’s voice rang in his ears, loud and clear as the day that she told him.

_“You **always** stand up.” _

Steve grunted, placing his hands on the pavement and raising his cheek from the concrete. He slowly rose, as if he got up too quickly he might fall apart or shatter into bits. The bullies watched him, their eyes narrowing. He knew what they wanted, they wanted him to quit. They wanted him to lay on the ground and cry, to scream “Uncle!” when they twisted his arm behind his back. He raised his fists, slowly and wobbly, swaying slightly from vertigo. He spat onto the pavement, a mixture of saliva and blood splatting on the sidewalk.

“I could do this all day,” Steve declared breathily, a feral grin on his mouth that looked more like a grimace than anything.

The boy’s cheeks seemed to get redder as he marched back to Steve. Steve swung, but the boy dodged, shoving Steve back. Steve hit the pavement and the boy followed, grabbing a hold of his shirt collar and raising his fist. He hit Steve again, blood and spit spraying from his split lip. Steve braced for another hit, fighting the motion sickness.  

“Hey!” A voice barked.

The boy paused and Steve opened his eyes. The chubby boy looked over his shoulder to see a tall boy with thick brown hair and the palest blue eyes. His shoulders were squared and he had a look of determination knitting his eyebrows together.

“Why don’t you guys pick on someone your own size?” he asked, but the question seemed more rhetorical than an actual question.

The boys laughed and the biggest boy dropped Steve’s shirt collar. Steve collapsed back onto the ground with a cough and a wheeze. The biggest bully marched over to the stranger, sizing him up. The stranger was shorter than the biggest bully but not by much, with broad shoulders to make up for the height difference.

“What, like you?” the bully sneered. The stranger raised his head, jaw locked in challenge. It was a silent dare, and Steve was stunned by the boy’s bravery. The large boy let out a breathy laugh, looking back at the rest of the boys who let out snickers, before throwing a quick jab at the stranger. Steve winced on the stranger’s behalf, bracing for the hit.

The hit never came.

The brunet boy dodged it, catching the bully’s arm and wrenching it behind his back. The feral dog was reduced to a whimpering mutt. The boy’s other arm flailed trying to land a hit on the stranger but he wasn’t even close. The stranger clenched his jaw and wrenched the trapped arm further until the bully was near howling. Steve and the bully’s goons stared in awe as the massive boy began to blabber, at the mercy of the brunet boy.

The stranger growled, low and threatening, “I ain’t gonna ask again.”

Steve was sure he heard a pop but he couldn’t be completely certain. When the stranger let go of the boy, the bully cradled his arm and began to cry. He held the limp limb gently as he ran away, tail between his legs. The goons, without a leader, stood for a moment dumbfounded. The stranger turned his attention to them, a glare set on his face. Steve watched in awe as the boys backed off, chasing after their fallen leader in a scramble of legs and feet.

Steve looked up from his position on the ground at his savior. The brunet boy offered him his hand and a full lipped smile, “you look like hell, kid.”

Steve tried to laugh, but the sound that left his mouth was more of a wheeze. He took the boy’s hand, replying weakly, “I had ‘em on the ropes.”

“I bet you did,” the boy laughed back at him, pulling him to his feet.

Steve stood, woozily, catching his balance just barely. He brushed off his clothes and wiping his chin. He tried to suppress the surprise in his eyes when he saw blood on the back of his hand. His eyes caught a blurred movement. He looked down at the boy, who was now gathering his spilled books from the concrete.

“Thanks, by the way,” Steve said. The brunet returned upright. He shrugged, as if to say “no big deal,” holding out the pile to Steve.

“Name’s James Buchanan Barnes, my friends call me Bucky” the boy smiled, revealing a missing front tooth.

He found himself smiling back, “Steven Grant Rogers, but you can call me Steve.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Feedback is much appreciated!


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